


the motion of the future

by doublejoint



Series: peachtober 2020 [18]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Movie: Star Wars: Return of the Jedi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27088720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: Sand in one's boots is inevitable on Tatooine.
Series: peachtober 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953295
Kudos: 2





	the motion of the future

**Author's Note:**

> #peachtober day 18: Warm

Even high and tight boots get filled with sand on Tatooine. Luke had known they would, and that emptying all the sand out would be annoying, and that he’d probably have to give in and do it sooner rather than later. Ten minutes back, planetside, and it’s both as if he’d never left, the sand and wind and sun settling into his bones, and as if he’s been away for so long that there’s no way he’ll ever be a native son again. He’s a stranger on the outskirts, in the markets, an offworlder in dark clothes that soak in the desert heat. He’s not a farm boy haggling for half-busted power cells, sweetening the deal with promises of more business in the future, stopping to chat with a friend of his aunt’s. He wouldn’t be quite so local here, but he’d slip into the crowd like a stray ship into formation. Or, more appropriately (and even his frame of reference has changed), like banthas merging into the herd.

He’d always hated it here, the stifling heat, the feeling of smallness, even in the middle of a large crowd. Like everywhere was nowhere, like he was an island in the middle of a vast ocean of sand. The sand itself is something he can live with, but--he stops, to sit on a rock and pour the sand out of his boot. It really does get everywhere. 

But even without the Force, he can spot the pickpockets a mile off, seeing in him an easy target. Softness, not the kind of naivete that comes from being formed by the desert winds, but another kind, incompatible with this planet. Serves them right when they brush past him and he smacks their wrists with his knuckles, their winces of pain and his gaze ahead--an accident, if he weren’t being so precise. They’ll pick a different target next time; he’s not worth pursuing.

He should go back, he thinks, to the old farm. Someone will have taken it over if they have the means, the hands to work it, but who among their neighbors does? Even if it’s technically his land, by some definition or other (can Jedi have land?) that wouldn’t stop a neighbor from tending it, until he gets back. He should tell them it’s theirs--but they’ll figure it out, when he doesn’t come back, and after this he doesn’t plan on it. 

He hadn’t thought he’d come back before this, though, and here he is. What is it that Yoda says about the future? Always in motion, it is. He can’t see into the flow of time, not tomorrow when he reaches Jabba’s palace, not even if he reaches it as planned, not how the events will unfold. Nothing is certain, but he’s not set on edge, despite all the details that have to go just right for them to succeed. He trusts his friends; he trusts himself; he trusts the Force. And all of that is enough.

* * *

That his trust is proven right, that he is validated--in the scheme of things, that doesn’t mean as much as having Han safe and alive, with as few ill effects from the carbonite as can reasonably be expected. He’s actually taking it a little bit better than Luke had expected, from missing all that time to, well, everything he had missed. It’s good to have him back, though, even if it’s on this same ball of sand where he grew up. (It’s the same one where he’d met Han and Chewie, though, and R2 and 3PO--so maybe there are good things here.)

“Not gonna stay on old home sweet home?” Han says, setting down a pint of ale in front of Luke.

“I’m surprised we’ve stayed as long as we have,” says Luke. “You sure Lando doesn’t want to settle down here?”

Lando, on the other side of the cantina, is spinning a tale that is just this side of believable (yes, before Han will say anything about the Force being mumbo-jumbo, this is completely different, far-fetched on a completely different axis) with a throng of admiring farmhands enrapt in the glow of the low-hanging lights. There’s a war on and they need to fight; they need to regroup now that the mission is complete. Luke needs to complete his training; Leia and Han and Lando need to get back to the base and catch up on intel. 

The suns will be up before they know it, and they do probably need to go by then (3PO has made several remarks to that effect, actually). Luke sips on his ale. It’s the cheap stuff his aunt and uncle used to drink with their friends on summer nights when the suns were setting and sweat clung to their faces and they made Luke go to bed but from his room with the power out, he could still hear the adults talking, though he couldn’t make out their words through the wall. He takes a bigger gulp.

“I can get you a case to go,” says Han, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

Luke smiles, leaning back against the cracking fabric of the booth. 

At the bar, a Rodian approaches Leia, offers to buy her a drink, and, when rejected, slumps his shoulders--but he brightens up when he sees someone else who might be available. Leia returns, pulling a loose lock of hair out of her collar.

“I really need to rebraid it. Not here, there’s too much sand. Ugh, what a mess.”

Luke moves over in the booth to give her room to sit down. 

“Well, I can’t say I liked it here much anyway,” says Han. 

That about does it for the conversation. Luke’s still got a ways to go on his ale, and it’s not the kind of thing you waste, but he’s fading fast. It’s been a long past few days, and he needs at least a few hours of sleep on the  _ Falcon _ before heading off. Maybe he will come back here, someday, in some form or another.


End file.
